L. WARD ABEL

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The Poetry Of...
L. Ward Abel...............................................................

The New Revelator

St. John lives in a small home these days,
toils over his desk contemplating a sequel
to his revelations, written so long ago.
A grove huddles on-hillside behind
his house, and frequently between passages
he retreats to the shade there, dozing
on what might be or will be.

He stopped taking the
newspaper recently, as it caused him
to have panic attacks, which interferes with
any hope of completing the new block-
buster. The "news" gave him too many ideas,
created too many parallels, revealed things
he'd just as soon not know. But he can't
escape the dish on his roof, the pictures
confirm the true direction
of his prose, he just can't look away.
The truth is his medication.
It leads him back, ultimately,
to his desk, the task at hand,
to something like tomorrow.

Somewhere It Is West

Somewhere it is west of Albuquerque.
Unspecified.
A spot,
and yet imaginary. Maybe.

And not one person has set foot there,
ever. I want to be the first one
to stand
and see that view
never
seen.

New Brunswick Curve

Crossings
edges to pass over
where are the guards?
I wander far removed now

Little flags make their x's on my topo
along great arbitrary verge
where night maybe
becomes day on either side

And then spotted a point
northeast of Brookton
an apparent unimproved road
gatelessly straddling land-bridge or water-neck

Could someone cross it?
or does the boundary shore
of Chiputneticook Lake
engulf what would be that corridor?

Small forgotten desolate
I imagine
is it here that I could just step or wade
over geopolitics?

Did Canada ever ask to be Maine?
does highway 122 melt into U.S. 1?
am I there if I wish to be so?
am I notwithstanding?

Blue yellow green white varicolored
lines and letters may give their evidence
but nothing on-site
can prepare me for borders.

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